Long Netherworld Poems
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Although the place where the dead go is called the world beyond,
some say that it’s located underground while others say that it’s located in heaven above.
Since the world beyond is not the real world where you and I live,
it doesn’t make any difference whether you go to heaven above
or netherworld below
the majority of people, when their time comes,
whether they lived their lives virtuously or not,
they want to go to heaven rather than the underworld.
Because the underworld is dark, chilly and damp,
moreover, time doesn’t move forward but is still,
people suppose; heaven is warm, bright and beautiful
with seasonal changes in colorful sceneries.
The thing is, though may it be human nature to choose heaven,
to me, rather hard to comprehend is the one who asserts
that they are the ones who will enter heaven wearing
a garment smeared with covetousness and hide their deformed ugly heart in it.
Most men who allegedly say that they will go to heaven
are those unable to see their own blemishes, no matter how big
they may be, because they are so arrogant and self-centered.
Nevertheless, they spot other’s flaws so easily, no matter
how small they may be, and scold them severely because
they are self-righteous hypocrites.
They donate a fraction of great sums that they collected from
many tenderhearted good people in the name of God or of charity
and boast on themselves though they appropriate the rest of the large
sum for their purposes, as if they sacrificed a lot of their possessions and precious time, as if they were the most caring and understanding human beings.
Though they ill-treated their own parents they shamelessly tell others
to respect their parents, they are deceptive pretenders. They are men
able to trade their own brothers for any price without the pangs of conscience though they once swore before God that they would be faithful to their brothers.
For those human trashes insist that heaven is theirs though
the men who qualify to enter heaven humbly lower their head
without a word, perhaps Peter the owner of the key to heaven,
is troubled badly with men’s ignominies; it would force dignified rigorous Yama*,
the lord of hell, to smile a grim smile.
*Yama, the Chinese and Hindus King of Hell. Hades of the Buddhism.
Even now, Pigeons stool surprised
while ensconced in dovecote
whose twittering translated as coo coo not bright
asper Icarus aiming for mythic cull magic did excite
popularized notion to take winged flight
And for twenty first century mortal to wax poetic
this January 2018 bitterly, brutally day and night
Stymied sans principle
contradicted laws of Physics
soaring to limitless height
Away from temporal axon light
Into the infinite cosmic dendrite
Realization to soar above heavenly vault
spectacular sight
Brainchild of anonymous genius minds
left stratospheric legacy
To witness awesome might
break away, sans gravity
tacit Obeisance acknowledged
this hundred year plus anniversary
Aero planes success got off the ground
Pardon saying may come across as trite
More than a century elapsed
since machines first attempt to remain aloft
Man made invention glittered silvery white
Beauty, grace and poetry in motion
excises Luddite trace
Despite countless fatal crashes
Tragedy to those loved ones lost in fiery plight
Invisible ethereal essences dwell
and hover some place
Occupy a netherworld housed
with fellow nymph and sprite
Return to Earth to deliver miracles
and prevent near disasters
Although many a skeptic
may ascribe phenomena to luck despite
Angelic visage impossible to dispute quite.
One early morning I heard the sound of approaching spring.
It was the sound of a bashful maiden crossing the stream
barefooted, holding the skirt in her slender fingers.
An azalea on the hillside is, with flushing cheeks,
peeking through the gap between two rocks.
I heard the swish of whip under the scorching sun,
it was the summer wielding the whip in middle of air
to drive a poor little white cloud away.
It was the great struggle and cry of a maiden
who was dragged by a big hand for forced marriage
to an overly arrogant, and therefore, disgusting man,
who lives in the village on the other side of the hill.
A cicada in a perfect impersonal beatitude is meditating
under the shade of a tree eyes closed on worldly matters.
On one nightfall, I heard the sound of autumn passing through
the plain, accompanying fallen leaves. It was the hollow resound,
a sardonic self-scorn of a lonely woman who walks over the fallen leaves.
It was the empty echo, a painful sigh of the broken hearted
woman who looks back the horrible past from the forgotten path
of perverted fate.
Under the beam of moonlight a cricket in the dungeon
as a confined prisoner, overwhelmed with grief, sadly chirps.
I saw an approaching winter violently punishing a dead tree’s limbs and branches. It was the roar of fierce tempest, it was the grudge of a woman who stands
in the middle of blizzard.
I saw winter walks on the stars above frozen sky in white garments.
It was the lamentation of the woman who roams in the other side of netherworld. It was the horrible memories of absurd past the woman can only recollect.
The tiny seeds in the soil, to overcome the bitter cold, are keep reciting
the last line of last stanza from Shelley’s To The West-Wind s— “O wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?” with tightly closed shivering lips.
*Image of the enthroned Roman goddess Ceres provided by Pixabay.
Ceres, Goddess of Harvest: The Pact
Birthright rules they are Jupiter's sisters,
Hera, Vesta, Ceres, whose names glisters.
Ceres, the goddess of crop gathering,
whom the gods treat the best, no blathering.
When Ceres was sad, the harvest did die,
and the people did ask all the gods why?
Pretty Proserpine, Ceres daughter,
picking berries, her uncle did spotter.
The uncle was Pluto, and none other,
whose desires chokes empty minds to smother.
Pluto was the god of the underworld,
who had kidnapped her to his netherworld.
Proserpine met needs, kept in a dream,
ageless her stay be Pluto's fated scheme.
Jupiter sought out Mercury for aid,
a messenger god and smart son, think trade?
Proserpine marries, in turn, he must,
let her return for six months, would be just.
Pluto, Ceres, and Jupiter agreed,
six months growth, six months none, was then decreed.
2021 April 23
HMS - 10 syllables per line & RZ - exact rhymes checked
Entering the Dark Side of a Moonbeam
Entering the dark side of a moonbeam is always very risky
since the cold and howling bitterness of the night escapes,
as a moaning, devilish agony of selfishness devours the good.
As the human heart fills with air, a legion of grieving spirits
in the human psyche is at once intoxicated with the sacred
kissed-gift of this hallowed eve as promised by the Devil.
Cain searches now within Life’s Garden that special hiding
place where unsuspecting Zombies of a grief-stricken nature
dwell whilst being seduced by a darkness as fires burn black.
What remains evident is an emotionless being who is tortured
with murderous feelings that are affected when the dark smoke
blows away all pride and one finds there is no remorse at all.
An agonizing pain is cleared now with the Moon’s eclipse as
the ghosts and goblins of the Devil seek “Hate’s Trigger” that
lies under a deep-dark crater where twilight ghosts cry out now.
These demonic ghosts are known as the “Crying Beggars of Despair,”
who haunt the soul of mankind and are born out of the dark ashes of
unhappy wild beasts who speak with tongues of envy and sadness.
These ghosts now set up their invisible barbed-wire boundaries
that they want to burst later as they begin fighting for their true
existence in the Devil’s own “Dark Netherworld of Lost Souls.”
These ghosts begin now to dance gracefully in the dark shadows as
their deceptive tongues make false complaints and poisonous lies
that throw the state of mind of the demonic ghosts into utter turmoil.
With this evil event, their blood rushes rapidly below the skin’s
surface, as a fear now clings to their throat as an eternal burning
battle gains no foothold to the next following step they must take.
Yes, even for the Devil’s own demonic ghosts from the depths of
Hell itself, their life, their very own existence is incredibly fragile
and vulnerable just like a match is to a flame. Mors omnia solvit.
Gary Bateman, Anne-Lise Andresen, and Liam McDaid
Copyright © All Rights Reserved, December 7, 2021
(Tercet)
He's reluctant to make friends,
and shows little or no trust
in people who reach out
and smiling he pretends!
He doesn't follow those positive minds,
every joke and laughter bothers him,
and seeing no humor in a silly whim...
his moods become bleaker than shadows!
What makes him act the strange way he does?
Was he bullied as a kid by his schoolmates?
And not having the strenght to fight back,
he lost his confidence in clever counterattack!
Oh, pitiful loner, be warned that a sucidial mind that
contemplates death has no worth, but bears distraught;
you live in a cheerless home that has closed windows
looking over a street where others exchange their hellos!
A bright teen barely twenty has willfully thrown away
his chances for glory by listening to internal voices
coming from the netherworld hindering his senses
from enjoying life by making his skies completely grey!
written on 6/19/2017
We're human beings- masters of this world;
what great accomplishments we have unfurled!
Between each other, we have kept our peace
most of the time- this virtue, we release.
And yet, so capable of causing death-
annihilating heartbeats, precious breath,
with wars and crimes that take away our lives
by enemies, we see- with guns or knives.
But now, we stand and face this enemy
we cannot see, yet- the epitome
of any threat, we've had to face before-
Coronavirus- microscopic spore-
to now advance by touch and through our air;
the sight of it, we're surely unaware.
With fright, we hide away in our cocoons
of living space- negating all communes.
We're human beings- masters of this earth,
at war with unseen enemies- our dearth,
advanced from microscopic netherworld-
true masters now of our evolved dream-world.
And yet- somehow, we know that we will win
and triumph over bad times- where we've been,
as future days will show new graphs unfurled-
and claim we're safe- still masters of this world!
March 19, 2020
Contest: N-A Re-Run 8 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Received N/A
Premiere Contest: Coronavirus Covid-19
Judged:05/12/2020
I don’t know why I have to roam in the maze of unknown. I don’t know why I have to trouble myself with anguish no way to shake off. A section of maze each time I pass, I felt I saw a gleam of knowledge, alas at this precise moment I must realize and have to accept it as to neither new knowledge nor the truth but a mirage under shimmering sun that glimmers on the expanse of sand hills, the illusion of my own distorted ugly image reflecting on the ripples of water. My life however cannot stop here. Life must move along with the flow of time, until the Herald of the netherworld hurriedly comes and grabs my gaunt hand in his all-powerful hands grip. Whether I found truth or not, whether I was satisfied with all that was given to me are still in my hands or not, I must walk in the valley of unknowable till I hear the cry of the approaching Grim Reaper, brandishing his mighty scythe in his hand.
I climbed the wall to reach the top of the world. In order to see other side of the world I swam on the river to cross the swift current. I traversed the wilderness to embrace the rising sun from the horizon. However, all these efforts were vain. I fell to the ground before reaching the top of the wall. I was pushed to this side of the shore before reaching other side of the river. The sun had sunk before I reached the horizon lying yonder. But I do not regret for whatever I have done so far to find the way out, I am not complaining here about myself at all, I am not sorry for what I am after all.
I groan and mourn only because no one ever taught me how to sing a sweet song or a roar with hearty laughter.
Entering the Dark Side of a Moonbeam
Entering the dark side of a moonbeam is always very risky
since the cold and howling bitterness of the night escapes,
as a moaning, devilish agony of selfishness devours the good.
As the human heart fills with air, a legion of grieving spirits
in the human psyche is at once intoxicated with the sacred
kissed-gift of this hallowed eve as promised by the Devil.
Cain searches now within Life’s Garden that special hiding
place where unsuspecting Zombies of a grief-stricken nature
dwell whilst being seduced by a darkness as fires burn black.
What remains evident is an emotionless being who is tortured
with murderous feelings that are affected when the dark smoke
blows away all pride and one finds there is no remorse at all.
An agonizing pain is cleared now with the Moon’s eclipse as
the ghosts and goblins of the Devil seek “Hate’s Trigger” that
lies under a deep-dark crater where twilight ghosts cry out now.
These demonic ghosts are known as the “Crying Beggars of Despair,”
who haunt the soul of mankind and are born out of the dark ashes of
unhappy wild beasts who speak with tongues of envy and sadness.
These ghosts now set up their invisible barbed-wire boundaries
that they want to burst later as they begin fighting for their true
existence in the Devil’s own “Dark Netherworld of Lost Souls.”
These ghosts begin now to dance gracefully in the dark shadows as
their deceptive tongues make false complaints and poisonous lies
that throw the state of mind of the demonic ghosts into utter turmoil.
With this evil event, their blood rushes rapidly below the skin’s
surface, as a fear now clings to their throat as an eternal burning
battle gains no foothold to the next following step they must take.
Yes, even for the Devil’s own demonic ghosts from the depths of
Hell itself, their life, their very own existence is incredibly fragile
and vulnerable just like a match is to a flame. Mors omnia solvit.
Gary Bateman, Anne-Lise Andresen, and Liam McDaid
Copyright © All Rights Reserved, December 7, 2021
(Tercet)
From time to time I feel low,
Low in self-esteem, low-keyed,
lowest man on the totem pole,
I have acrophobia, I often
descent to a lower level…
The higher I aspire
The lower I fall.
Life mostly lowball me
as such, my spirit keeps a low morale.
Maybe I come across as
a low bred and lowbrow person.
Conspired by my stars and the moon
My sea always rests at a low tide.
Shell-shocked by my low-minded destiny,
My fate and I must have
a high level showdown soon;
In the meantime,
I'll keep a low profile.
Be that as it may,
My soul is not doomed to wander
in the netherworld forever,
I am the patron of high hopes,
high cholesterol, high blood pressure,
and high sugar level.
I am also a high-strung person,
But, thankfully not of any highfalutin jargon.
Shy of highways, I frequent
the by lanes and side streets.
After the high-handed takeover by Time,
I live a high-pressured life.
Methinks, now is the high time
to lay down the highlights of my life.
From the descent and ascent of life,
this I have learned:
Not to gaze so high as ambition,
And to look no lower than despair.